


If He Should Not Sing

by Niobium



Series: Becoming [2]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Five Year Mission, Gen, Post Star Trek: Into Darkness, Star Trek: AOS, Star Trek: Into Darkness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 09:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niobium/pseuds/Niobium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Post-Star Trek Into Darkness adventure during the five-year mission, in which an unpredictable nebula, a stranded alien starship, and some unwanted allies all conspire to make Jim Kirk's life more complicated than he'd like it to be. </p><p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/859839"><i>Beneath the Enormous Sky</i></a>. (Might be readable stand-alone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I hadn't really intended to do a sequel to _Beneath_ , but then one of the commenters (Iniysa) mentioned it, and then I got to thinking, "Well, maybe..." So now here we are.
> 
> As before, I am not an astrophysicist, but I tried to at least nod in the general direction of the fascinating science of space and entertain.
> 
> There's no specific STID spoilers in here but consider yourself warned. The Jim/Gaila is minor, and the Spock/Uhura is blink-and-you'll-miss-it.
> 
> This is complete, so any edits will just be to fix problems I find.

*** 

He fell through total darkness for so long that he reached the point where it almost felt like flying, and he couldn’t be sure he was falling anymore. There was no sound of air rushing past him, and no feel of wind whipping at his clothes, in fact the only indication of movement was the inexorable pull of gravity. He wondered if he might be in a particularly dark region of space. 

He was getting comfortable with that version of events when he struck a sandy surface. Despite the duration of his fall, the landing wasn’t too much worse than rolling off his bed in a drunken stupor at the Academy had ever been, and he sprang back to his feet. Adrenaline made his heart pound. 

He was dressed in a black, regulation undersuit. The ground beneath his bare feet was plain black sand, fine-grained and gleaming under a narrow shaft of light that came from somewhere far overhead. Between him and that light source (and anything else) was a thick, clear, glass dome. Beyond that lay darkness. 

He spared only a second to ponder how he could have fallen onto the sand without hitting the dome (or breaking every bone in his body) and set to looking for a way out. He tried digging underneath the glass, and this only revealed more glass or sand that refused to come loose. He took to pounding on the barrier and shouting. Maybe there was something or someone out there in the black that could hear him? 

He stopped once he was too exhausted to move anymore, and leaned against the glass, panting. Wherever he was, he had to think of a way out. There had to be some way. 

A flash out of the corner of his eye was his only warning. He turned to block whatever it was, and his arm was struck aside with such force that his teeth ached from the pain. A series of articulated metal arms, brassy-gold in color, were heaving themselves out of the sand and reaching for him. They each ended in a dozen, small, finely-wrought fingers, and moved with the smooth, whirring sound of precise machinery. 

He darted out from under the closest arm’s reach, running for a different side of the dome, but fell to the sand when one of the other hands caught him by the ankle. He twisted and tried kicking at it with his free foot, and another arm grabbed that one as well. Now that he wasn't running, these two set to dragging him into a cage-like construct the rest had formed of themselves, with five remaining to chain him at his ankles, wrists, and neck. 

Anger and panic threatened to overwhelm him. Their grip was firm, though not (thankfully) painful. He took a handful of ragged breaths and shouted up at the light, "Why are you doing this!"

There was no response. Now that the cage had him, the arms fell still, and the only sound was his own labored breath and his heart pounding in his ears. 

_Think_ , he told himself. _You have to think_. 

He slowed his breathing and listened for anything that wasn’t himself, hoping for a clue or some sort of inspiration. Gradually he began to hear something else coming from overhead, and when he looked up he saw water splashing down onto the glass. He couldn't see the source; it came from somewhere far above, near the long line of light. 

The water flow grew steadier. He had a moment of panic about the possibility of being trapped under dome as it filled with water, and was relieved to see it wasn't seeping in through the sand. Well, that was something. 

He tried to calm himself. There was a way out of this, he just had to think it through. He needed to be as logical about it as possible, just like...like... 

He tried, and tried, and couldn’t come up with the name. Now he was panicked, because that was a name he shouldn’t have been able to forget, any more than he could forget his own. 

Which he realized, with mounting terror, that he also didn't know anymore. 

The water was roaring down overhead, and had risen so far that it almost covered the dome. He could feel it now as it picked up speed; his memories and thoughts and experiences, all bleeding out of him into the rapidly filling lake. He thought he caught bits and pieces as they drained away, though perhaps that was just desperation. 

_It's gonna be okay, son._  
 _Frustration that his friend couldn’t understand an obvious gesture of friendship._  
 _Elation at finding out she had survived (he should know her name and her race but those were both already gone)._  
 _Another friend refusing to leave him behind._  
 _The purpose of the test is to experience fear._

Despite being on the verge of tears he laughed, because fear was the only thing he had left now. He held onto it, hoping it would remind him of things. If it worked, he might have to thank-- 

_You are the Pilot of the Praxidi starship_ Dancer in the Void. 

The call echoed around him and through him. He froze, waiting, listening. The lake had become a sea now, hundreds of feet deep, and the light was fading. 

_You are the Pilot_. 

The words pulled at some new part of him that was growing stronger even as the rest drained away. He resisted with all that he had left. "No, no, I'm not. That's not who I am." 

But who was he? He was an empty shell, and the voice filled the emptiness. The sea deepened into an ocean--miles upon miles of memory and thought and experience--and everything vanished into a darkness so deep he thought the universe might be at an end. (The grip of the cage and the pressure of the water around the dome reminded him otherwise.) 

"Don't do this," he whispered. “Please don't do this.” 

_You are the Pilot._

He gripped his nails into his hands, hard enough to draw blood, trying to hold out as long as he could. The voice worked its way into every corner of him and wouldn't be denied. There was nothing left to deny it anyways, save for this last sliver of defiance whose source he couldn't even name. 

_You are the Pilot._

Between one shuddering breath and the next he recognized what it was: a call to him, waiting for a response, and he knew what that response had to be.

With that understanding he felt the last pieces of whatever he had been before that moment lose hold. He braced himself for whatever would come next, and answered. 

_I am the Pilot._

In the darkness under the ocean, someone screamed. 

*** 

Jim bolted awake, the relentless voice and his own screaming and the Pilot's acquiescence still thundering in his ears. Gaila touched his arm, and he flinched as the contact brought his mind crashing back to reality. He was shaking and coated in a fine sheen of sweat despite his temperature controlled quarters on the _Enterprise_. 

He cursed under his breath and slowly laid back on the bed. The various electronics scattered around the room offered just enough light to dispel any lingering memories of the bone-numbing darkness under the ocean. 

Gaila reached over to stroke his face, and he took several deep, slow breaths. 

"I wasn't me anymore," he whispered, and though he thought it sounded like nonsense, he felt her nod in understanding. Without thinking he rolled over and reached for her. She gathered him up, and he hid his face against her neck. She stroked his back and he sighed, exhausted. 

"Sorry I woke you up." 

She shook her head, dismissing the apology, and began murmuring something in an Orion language. He barely understood enough of the dialect she practiced with him to follow the words, but it had the cadence of a poem or maybe a song, and it was soothing. Sleep reclaimed him in short order. 

*** 

As she held him in the dark while he trembled from the after-effect of the nightmare, Gaila decided that it would be best if Commander Spock kept her off any Praxidi diplomatic missions from here on out. She couldn't be certain that, should they ever come across the ones who'd done this to him again, she wouldn't kill them on sight. 

To comfort herself as much as him, she recited Ujia's Song for the Warriors, which told of that goddess' brutal vengeance on those who'd brought harm to her loved ones. He fell asleep again, though it was some time before she could do the same.


	2. Chapter 2

*** 

For the first time since he could remember, Jim Kirk was in a god-awful hurry to finish up a planetary survey and get the hell out of the area. 

He didn’t pace around the bridge or drum his fingers on the chair’s armrests, though it took an incredible amount of concentration not to. A few sideways glances from Sulu and Uhura had suggested everyone could tell he was wound tight, which didn’t assuage his sense of urgency one bit, though it did remind him to at least try to appear calm and collected. 

A tiny, uninhabited planetary system secreted away in a complex stellar construct was the sort of thing he had dreamed of when they’d been given the five-year mission, and he intended to make the most of such a find. The questions it raised seemed limitless, and the science team was burning the candle at both ends trying to gather all the data they could. Under any other circumstances, he would have been planet-side with Spock to experience the discovery first hand, taking as much time exploring the environs as the fascinating nebula and its surrounding, treacherous halo would allow. (Per Spock and Chekov’s calculations, they had about twelve more hours before the path through the halo closed.) 

These were not just any circumstances, though. It wouldn’t be a good idea for both himself and Spock to be off-ship with an unpredictable nebula on one hand and a neutral-at-best alien vessel on the other. 

He let his eyes wander to the small display of the exploration ship that was sitting a polite distance off their port side. It wasn’t nearly the size of the last Praxidian vessel he’d seen, but it was the same night-black color and had the same long, sweeping lines that arced from the tall, vertically oriented bow to the flared stern. He told himself it would just be another few hours, and he could go back to hating and avoiding them for the rest of his life. 

Chekov’s voice cut through his contemplation. “Captain. The results of the scan are ready.” 

He moved to Chekov’s station and examined the data. The majority of it was math: calculations, predictions, and tables, all pertaining to a nearby white dwarf star. He went over the numbers, then focused on the handful of images that accompanied them while Chekov explained the findings. 

“It is accumulating a large amount of hydrogen on its surface, possibly from the nebula’s halo, or the remnants of the stellar envelope further in. It is difficult to tell from this angle. If we made a closer pass, we could take better readings.” 

Jim nodded and looked from the images to the numbers and back. Somewhere inside of him a voice said, _Something’s not right._

“I’m sorry, sir?” 

He cleared his throat. “Is there any way we can boost the sensitivity on the ultraviolet telescopes and take better images from here?” 

Chekov frowned as he thought that over. “If Mr. Scott has some material he can spare, we could construct new filters for the detectors. That might give us the best improvement in the smallest amount of time.” 

Jim straightened. “Kirk to Engineering.” 

“What can I do for you, Captain.” 

“It’s actually Mr. Chekov you’re doing for, Mr. Scott. He needs to make new filters for the EUV telescopes. I’m sending him down now. Get them done and installed as quickly as possible.” 

“Will do, Captain.” 

Chekov nodded and left for the turbolift, and Jim considered the images of the white dwarf again. 

_What am I not seeing._

For a disorienting second, it felt like he saw the data through someone else’s eyes, and that someone was disappointed in the quality compared to what it had once used to predict stellar phenomena to the second. 

“Spock to Enterprise.” 

He started out of whatever reverie he’d been in. In his peripheral vision he saw Uhura narrow her eyes at him. “Spock. You about done down there?” 

“Not quite, Captain. There is something here I think you should see.” 

*** 

Bad enough there was one Praxidian ship in the vicinity; now he was looking at a second. 

It was resting on the ground at the lowest point of a steep valley ringed by towering pinnacles, and were it not for Spock’s geoscanners (and an instinct he couldn’t ignore no matter how much he tried) he would’ve taken it for an abandoned, monolithic city due to the plant life, ice, and rocks riddled over it and around its base. Spock’s data estimated it had been in place for a minimum of three hundred years, possibly longer, and there was no sign of an impact crater; it had come down as gently as something of its size could. 

The ship’s lines were clear to him with only a glance at the readings, and one of his hands fisted briefly, because what was worse than finding another Praxidian ship was finding a Praxidian warship. (And the only thing worse than either of those things was his inexplicable ability to recognize it as such.) 

He grimaced and said to Spock, “This is why they’re here.” 

Spock’s survey team was spread out along a windswept river delta behind them, taking samples, while he and Jim stood on a small rise that let them see into the valley. It was colder at this exposed location, and Spock was bundled up against the weather to a much greater extent than anyone else. If he hadn’t been so worn out, Jim would’ve found it funny. 

“You are certain it is one of their ships?” 

“Positive.” 

Spock gave him one of those looks which said he was, sooner or later, going to drag an explanation out of Jim about these new certainties of his. “Will we tell them?” 

Jim rubbed at his eyes. He didn’t want to tell them anything aside from where they could stick their ships; what he wanted to do was put as much space as possible between himself and every Praxidian in the galaxy. “Not sure. We know they’re not benign, but this group’s been pretty well-behaved.” His eyes traced the shape of a phaser battery, and he wondered how he knew what it was. “What do you think?” 

Spock considered the ship, then Jim. “It would be a way for the Federation to be in their good graces for future negotiations,” he admitted. “And given your past interaction with them, helping them relocate a ship of theirs would be a way of putting yourself above reproach, and could even be a form of proof that you do not hold a grudge against them.” 

“I don’t hold just _a_ grudge against them, Spock, I hold an entire fleet of grudges.” 

Spock didn’t smile, but Jim thought he saw the corners of his eyes gather just so. “Then at least you can offer the appearance of not holding any.” 

“Right.” He sighed. “How much longer do you need?” 

“Another hour will suffice.” 

“Okay. When you’re done, pack up, take your team’s shuttle, and go back to the _Enterprise_. Uhura and I will stay here and have a conversation with that General of theirs, then take the other shuttle back.” 

“Might I recommend the doctor remain as well?” 

“Why?” 

“Because, Captain, you have for the last two weeks appeared unwell, yet you have not seen fit to have doctors McCoy or M’Benga address whatever might be amiss. It would be prudent to have one of them close by. Dr. McCoy accompanied us as our medical staff, making him the obvious choice.” 

He was too tired to be mad at Spock for making his health a priority (never mind that per a prior agreement of theirs he also didn’t have the right), but it was hard to not resent being backed into a corner over it. “Fine,” he said, trying not to sound petulant. He flipped open his communicator. “Bones.” 

“McCoy here.” 

“Once Spock’s done he’s taking his team back to the _Enterprise_. You and Uhura and I are going to have a chat with the Praxidian General before we head back.” 

“What _kind_ of chat?” 

“The kind where I give them what they’re looking for and we get out of here before they turn it on.” 

After some crackling and a considerable pause, McCoy demanded, “Who exactly volunteered me for this?” 

Jim rolled his eyes. “Kirk out.” 

Spock seemed satisfied. Jim tromped down the hill towards the shuttle to talk to Uhura.


	3. Chapter 3

***

He was handling their counterparts remarkably well for someone they’d kidnapped and used as the central processing unit of a starship without being given any say in the matter. At least, that’s what Spock had told him after the Praxidian ship appeared on the viewscreen and he refrained from opening fire on it. He was pretty sure that was Spock’s way of trying to get him to talk about the last few weeks and the various sequelae which were piling up: nightmares and lost time and the way he knew things he shouldn’t. Jim had given him a sullen glare for his efforts. 

In contrast, Gaila was tight-lipped and spoke in the briefest possible sentences, and avoided the bridge at all costs. When Spock put her on the list of crew for the planetary survey, she’d requested a re-assignment. Once or twice he thought about talking to her about that--Gaila loved planetary surveys and readily traded shifts with anyone who didn’t want to go--but decided it could wait until they were on to their next objective.

It helped that the Praxidians were being the very essence of polite, and had even (Jim thought) warmed to them some when Uhura offered them a Praxidian-Standard translation program she’d been working on. Not that he wanted to be on friendly terms with them, but he knew what their ships were capable of, and what he wanted had to take a back seat to keeping the _Enterprise_ and her crew safe. He would have to settle for thinking nasty thoughts about them and giving them dirty looks whenever he had to interact with them, and let the rest go. 

He did get one small sliver of satisfaction: when they tried to tease out of Uhura where she’d seen and heard enough of their language to build a translation algorithm, she'd given them a saccharine smile and taken the subject two times around the dance floor without letting anything slip. That had been a fine thing to watch.

He explained the current situation to Uhura and McCoy (”It was _Spock_ , wasn’t it,” McCoy said, and Jim ignored him), then had Uhura contact the Praxidian shuttle. They agreed to meet in a neutral spot they’d designated ahead of time for such things: a sheltered vale a few hundred miles from the _Enterprise_ survey team’s initial landfall. The surrounding mountains kept out most of the wind, so it was only chilly rather than downright freezing.

The General (or so the translation filter had dubbed him) arrived with two other Praxidians: one Jim knew was the General’s assistant without knowing why he did, and another he’d seen on the _Enterprise_ ’s viewscreen when the two crews had first made visual contact. The three of them were brilliant spots of color in the otherwise cool landscape of blue and white and gray: the General’s chitin was mustard yellow and flecked with gray; the Assistant was solid rust-purple; and the third was dark red with bold black stripes. He knew this third Praxidian was a systems engineer, because the last time he’d seen her was through a console camera lens, standing next to Captain Yzzorthil in the hallway of a dying survey vessel.

_I am sorry, Pilot._

She was staring at him with recognition plain in her posture; he returned the favor and tried not to think about the cold sweat that had broken out along his back.

“Captain. I hope your examination of the planet has been fruitful.”

Jim blinked and refocused on the General. It took him a second to put his thoughts together. “Oh, you have no idea. We’ve found all sorts of interesting new plants, some great geological formations, even a few crater sites. How often do you get to look at a place like this?”

“Not often. It is truly a unique and informative place.”

“Yeah.” He rubbed at his forehead and let his feigned enthusiasm drop. “But as informative as it is, none of that’s what you’re here for.” 

“Captain,” Uhura whispered under her breath. They traded glances (hers said ‘reign it in’ and his said ‘make me’ with a dash of ‘oh, _fine_ ’), and he cleared his throat. 

“I’m sorry?” 

Jim had an intense moment of cognitive dissonance as the translation software made the General sound politely confused, while to Jim’s eyes (no, someone else’s he was borrowing) he appeared shrewd and cautious. He plastered his best ‘I don’t like you’ smile into place. 

“You wouldn’t happen to be here looking for something, would you?” 

The General’s wariness increased. Jim was sure he saw one of the Assistant’s nerve bundles flick. “We are always in search of knowledge, Captain Kirk. It is the greatest wealth in all the universe.” 

“Right, knowledge. Like, say, the whereabouts of a ship.” 

The General froze. Jim pulled out the tiny memory fob he’d saved the map and coordinates on and held it up. “Something in the planet’s magnetosphere is preventing it from showing up on scans from orbit. We only found it because we were using geophysical scanners.” 

The General stared at him for several unsettling seconds, then said, “We would be most indebted to you, Captain Kirk.” 

He couldn’t keep all of the anger out of his voice. “You already are, and this just makes the tab bigger, so here’s how this works--we’re leaving, and _then_ you do whatever it is you’re going to do with it. Until the _Enterprise_ warps out, I don’t want to see so much as a peep from that thing.” 

Uhura widened her eyes at him in a warning. He counted his breathes. 

"The path out of the nebula will only be open for another half a subcycle, if that, and is unlikely to open again for another Maxima." 

"Don't worry, we're not sticking around. You'll have plenty of time to do whatever you're going to do." 

“We intend to do nothing more than to place the ship back into service.” 

Something inside of him flinched, and he swallowed against it. “I don’t want my crew anywhere near one of your warships, in service or not, so don’t launch it until we’re gone.” 

He saw Uhura and McCoy give him looks that were just as surprised as the General’s and his assistant’s. Only the Engineer was unfazed, and it was to her that he lobbed the memory stick. She caught it without missing a beat. 

He turned to go, and McCoy and Uhura fell in next to him. 

“A warship?” McCoy asked through clenched teeth. Jim cast a sharp glance at him, and McCoy fell silent in response. 

“Can we get out of here before they get it up and running?” Uhura murmured. Jim nodded. 

“It’ll take them a while to get it squared away--it’s probably been sitting there for a couple hundred years. And they’ll need to fix whatever stranded it.” 

They walked back to the shuttle in silence, though McCoy’s looks spoke volumes about how much Jim wasn’t going to like the conversation they would be having on the way back to the _Enterprise_. 

He looked back over his shoulder once before they rounded a curve that would take them out of sight of the Praxidians; they were just disappearing into their own shuttle. 

*** 

“Kirk to _Enterprise_.” 

“Captain. I take it the meeting did not go poorly?” 

“It went as good as it could have. We’ll be back in a half-hour.” 

Uhura began powering up the shuttle while Jim went over the recent readings from the nebula’s halo. The path through it was still open and clear, which was a relief, though he wasn’t sure why he’d been worried. 

McCoy settled into a chair next to him. “So. I’m guessing I just got an eyeful of why Spock wanted me around.” 

Jim only glanced up from the readings on the halo for a moment. “What?” 

“You looked like you were reacting to way more than _I_ was hearing. And you kept staring at the red one.” 

“Engineer.” 

“What?” 

“She’s an engineer.” 

Uhura had looked over at them from her station. “How could you tell?” she asked, her tone cautious. 

He didn’t want to tell them because he didn’t want to think about it, but he made himself. “She was on the...other ship.” 

Uhura gave him a sympathetic look. McCoy sighed and looked away, folding his arms. “Well hopefully that’s the last we see of them.” 

Jim just nodded. 

One of the shuttle’s panels chirped for their attention, and Uhura got up and moved to it. She stiffened as soon as she read the display. 

“Captain,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “You should have a look at this.” 

The long range sensors filled half the display, scrolling data pertaining to the white dwarf star he’d had his eye on. It was almost too fast to read and comprehend; or, it was for one part of him, but that other, unsleeping part told him what the readings meant. Actually, it shouted them in a panic. 

Jim lunged for the communications panel so fast Uhura jumped back in surprise. 

“Spock get out of here _now_!” 

No sooner had he spoken than the shuttle’s computers flashed numerous warnings in red, and the signal of the white dwarf brightened over a millionfold. 

The Praxidi survey vessel’s signal winked out. The _Enterprise_ ’s lingered, and Jim wondered if it was hesitation to leave the three of them behind that caused the delay rather than any technical issue. Then it too vanished, and the nova’s shockwave rolled through. 

He had a brief, nauseating thought that they were all about to die, and this other part of him that knew so much insisted that was complete nonsense. It was the later which turned out to be correct: the outer halo and inner rings of the nebula protected the planetary system like breakwaters, and the three of them watched in mingled horror and awe as ripples of light filled the sky on the shuttle viewscreen. In the silence that followed, none of them spoke; the fear that the _Enterprise_ hadn’t made it hung heavy in the air. 

Eventually McCoy looked down at one of the panels. “Jim.” 

He followed McCoy’s gaze, and his stomach went cold. The path out of the halo had all but collapsed.


	4. Chapter 4

*** 

“I don’t think I can do this anymore.” 

He and McCoy were looking out over the nebula’s halo. It writhed and churned, offering no way out and promising to imprison them in its heart like an obsessed lover until they’d all withered into dust. 

“Do what?” 

“This thing where I have two of me. It’s like I react to everything twice, and see everything twice, and know more than I should. I can’t do it anymore.” 

“What choice do you have?” McCoy asked it like it was an academic curiosity. 

“There’s always a choice.” 

“Like what, killing one of you?” 

“Like having Kevin and Spock find a way to fix it.” 

“Would there be any of you left then?” McCoy tilted his head. “Aren’t you defined by how broken you are?” 

He turned to look at McCoy, stunned, and shuddered as he came to a realization. He took several faltering steps back. “Maybe it’s time for me to stop being broken.” 

“What’s this--Jim Kirk, trying to turn over a new leaf?” The shade of his friend had a demeanor which was predatory in the extreme, and he wondered how he could have mistaken it for McCoy for even a second. 

It started stalking towards him. He knew he should turn and run, but he was afraid to take his eyes off it, so he kept backing away as fast as he dared. “I’m just trying to salvage my sanity.” 

“What sanity? You didn’t have any to speak of before this--you had a facade you cobbled together for the sake of appearances. To trick people into accepting you.” It flashed a smile at him that was all teeth. “You’re just a too-smart, manic-depressive drunk that’s only good for one thing.” 

The halo had gone dark, leaving the faint glow of the nebula’s dying heart to cast them in monochromatic shades. Jim stopped, and his hands fisted tight enough that his nails cut into his palms. “That’s not true. That’s not who I am.” 

The shade kept coming closer. He made to back further away, and found he couldn’t; something gripped his wrists and his feet and his neck, holding him immobile. He thought he saw the gleam of brass out of the corner of his eye. 

“No? Then who are you? _What_ are you?” 

Panic and anger made his breath come short. “I’m James Kirk, the captain of the _Enterprise_.” 

“No you’re not.” It grabbed a fistful of his hair and wrenched his head to one side. His heart leapt into his throat, and though he wanted to shout at it, scream, anything at all, he couldn’t produce a sound. 

With McCoy’s voice the shade hissed into his ear, “ _You are the Pilot._ ” 

*** 

Jim flinched awake in his chair on the shuttle, gripping the armrests. McCoy was on his feet and coming over to him on the instant; he stopped just short of reaching out. 

“You alright?” 

_I don’t think I can do this anymore._

“No,” he found himself saying. “Not really.” 

At first McCoy looked taken aback by the admission, then his face set in grim lines. He sat back down and hung his hands between his knees. “Nightmares?” 

Jim had to work to not lean away from McCoy. It wasn’t his fault the nightmare had picked him for its face. “Yeah. And I’m...having trouble knowing what’s me and what’s not. Like I’ve got two of me looking out at the world, two of me making decisions.” 

“Two of you?” 

From the front of the shuttle Uhura called, “Captain.” 

He gave McCoy a look which he hoped made clear his promise to continue the discussion at a better time. “Yeah?” 

“We have visitors.” 

They joined Uhura up front and were greeted by the site of the viewscreen showing the General and his assistant approaching the shuttle. They stopped a polite distance away. 

“Looks like we weren’t the only ones who missed our ride,” McCoy muttered. 

His eyes never leaving the display, Jim asked Uhura, “Have you gotten any signals out through the halo?” 

“I’m not really sure. The shuttle’s subspace transmitter isn’t very powerful.” 

He thought it over. “Their ship’s might be.” 

McCoy blinked. “Wh--you’re not actually thinking of asking them if we can use it, are you?” 

“Don’t need to. I’m pretty sure they’re here to ask for Uhura’s help with it.” He looked askance at her. “Do you want to?” 

She hesitated, then let her irritation show. “I don’t like the idea of helping them with anything.” 

It hadn’t occurred to him that she might be angry at them over what he’d been put through, and he was surprised at how reassuring that was, even if it wasn’t useful. (He could hear Spock berating them both for letting emotion cloud their thinking, and despite their dire situation had to work to keep the smile off his face.) “Me neither. But if the _Enterprise_ could still get to us, it would be here by now, and we haven't even heard from them. So I don’t know that we’ve got much choice.” 

“There’s always a choice.” 

His head was starting to hurt. “I’m just saying I won’t order you to do it.” 

She arched an eyebrow at him. “You’d let me refuse to work with them even if that means we all grow old and die here?” 

“I’m petty and vengeful and won’t deny anyone else the chance to help me in my mission of pettiness and vengeance.” 

McCoy snorted a laugh. Uhura smiled, though it was sad, and looked back at the display. She sighed. 

“I want to see Spock again a lot more than I don’t want to help them.” 

Jim nodded. He looked at McCoy, who shrugged. 

“I could go either way on that.” 

“ _Bones_.” 

Uhura rolled her eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

*** 

The Assistant looked, to Jim’s other eyes, to be more wary of them this time. The General was all business. 

“Captain Kirk. I am sorry you and your people find yourself in the same predicament we do.” He included Uhura and McCoy in his regrets with a gesture. “Have you heard from your ship?” 

“No. We saw both of them jump.” 

“As did we, though we have not heard from either, nor been able to confirm our attempts to signal them from our shuttle are successful.” 

Uhura said, “If your shuttle’s anything like ours, it probably can’t produce a signal strong enough to get through the halo’s interference.” 

“Very likely. We were considering trying the systems on the _Twilight’s Shining Teeth_ , which would be considerably more powerful.” He glanced at Jim, then addressed Uhura again. “Your knowledge and assistance would be invaluable in this, and could allow all of us to escape.” 

Uhura looked askance at him, and he gave her a deferential nod. She told the General, “I’ll help, provided we contact _both_ ships, and all rescue operations involve our people as well as yours.” 

“It will be done. The ship will also provide larger facilities, should you find your shuttle to be crowded.” 

Jim nodded his agreement. As the Praxidians turned to depart, he found himself saying, “Speaking of your ship.” They both faced him once more, and he felt McCoy’s eyes on him like a warning. “What stranded it, exactly?” 

Neither of them replied. Jim found it hard to reign in his impatience. “There’s no hull damage--not the kind that would ground a ship like that. But if they came in here then they had to at least have an idea of how fast they had to get out. So what was it?” 

The Assistant was looking at the ground. One of the General’s hands made a fluid gesture. “Come. There is something we will show you.” 

*** 

They landed the shuttles not far from the ship. This close, Jim could see the hull was in remarkable condition; the worst word he could use in describing it was ‘dirty’. He wondered, off hand, if they’d gathered enough sensor data on it for Scotty to figure out how it had remained in such good shape. 

The Assistant remained in the shuttle this time. The General and the Engineer lead them along an uncertain game trail (McCoy muttered something about not wanting to run into any of the ‘game’, and Uhura murmured agreement) that tracked through bluish-white, crystalline trees to a massive cliff face that ice and time had carved into a natural amphitheater. They rounded a large boulder leading into the cavernous alcove and Jim stopped dead in his tracks, bile rising in the back of his throat. 

A roughly circular mosaic of gleaming metal set into black, glassy rock stretched a good two hundred feet before them, reaching all the way to the back of the alcove. The colors and shapes were placed with an eye towards letting the viewer imprint their own ideas: if you looked at it this way, you might see a comet, or that way, a wild forest, or another way, a moonrise over an alien shore. 

Jim stumbled back, forcing Uhura to step to the side; McCoy caught him by the arm. 

“Are you alright?” Uhura asked him in a low voice. 

The General hadn’t noticed, but the Engineer was scrutinizing him. He met her eyes, and she looked away and moved to join the General, who was performing a ritual genuflection. She began to do the same. 

Jim squeezed his eyes shut against the knowledge of what he was seeing. “I’m fine,” he whispered. 

McCoy growled, “You’re not fine, you’re the textbook definition of the opposite of _fine_.” 

Uhura kept watching the Praxidians. She cast Jim a look when they began to turn around. 

“I’ll _be_ fine,” he insisted, shaking himself free of McCoy and moving away from him. McCoy didn’t look the least bit convinced, but Jim’s set jaw seemed to put him off asking anything else. Jim sucked in the cold air and tried to dispel the idea that this was a conglomeration of dismembered body parts. 

Once the General was facing them again, it was McCoy who asked, “What _is_ this?” 

“This is the manner in which our people honor the dead who do not wish to be, or cannot be, reclaimed.” 

A wave of light-headedness passed over Jim. Next to him he heard Uhura ask, “‘Reclaimed’?” 

McCoy added, “Like, organ donation?” and the General nodded at them. 

“Just so.” 

He saw Uhura look over the General and the Engineer, taking in the places where their chitin gave way to metal. She said, slowly, “These are the remains of that ship’s crew.” 

“Yes.” 

Jim was going to throw up if they didn’t stop talking about this soon, but there was something they (he) had to know. “What happened to them?” he asked, dreading the answer. 

“A plague.” 

McCoy and Uhura’s widened eyes were enough to prompt a reassurance from the General. “Not one which could infect any of your people, even if it were still in evidence, which it is not. We tested for such possibilities when you said you would be landing on the planet.” 

“The entire crew of that ship was wiped out before it could get out of the halo?” McCoy didn’t bother to mask his incredulity. 

The General glanced at the Engineer, whose nerve bundles had flicked, then replied, “This plague was extremely virulent. That is how the ship came to be stranded here so close to the closing of the path. We have waited almost four hundred years to honor these crew and return this ship to our fleet.” 

Jim’s head was starting to clear. It wasn’t easy to look at the mosaic, but it wasn’t nauseating anymore. While the General spoke, he noticed five silvery discs among the random assortment. They were all similar in design, unlike every other augmentation piece, and there was calligraphic script on each one. He looked away from them when he discovered he could read it. 

It occurred to him that Uhura and McCoy were doing most of the talking, and he said the first thing that came to mind. “It was a biological weapon.” He looked straight at the Engineer. “Wasn’t it.” 

He now had the General’s undivided attention. At a signal from the General, the Engineer replied, “Yes. It was.” 

“Never anything new under the sun, is there,” McCoy muttered, and he shared a look with Jim that had nothing to do with their current situation. 

_Never anything new indeed_. “But the ship’s decontaminated now?” 

The Engineer’s gaze returned to the mosaic. The General said, “Yes. We would never enter it otherwise. My assistant and our systems engineer have seen to restoring the secondary power system, and the AI has cleaned the interior. It is safe to occupy.” 

Jim nodded, feeling drained. “Alright.” He paused, then added, “Thanks. For telling us.” 

That seemed to be the correct thing to say, because the General and the Engineer both made gestures of appreciation, then led the three of them back to the shuttles. He could feel the Engineer’s eyes on him the entire time.


	6. Chapter 6

*** 

The flight to the ship was quiet. Jim was stewing in his own chaotic reaction to the graveyard and the way he knew what all the complex and varied Praxidian body language meant, McCoy was watching him like a hawk, and Uhura was doing most of the flying. 

When one of the ship’s hangars loomed in the viewscreen, they left off their preoccupations and watched with increasing amazement. Huge portions of the vegetation and mounds of rocks and ice had been cleared away, giving the entrance the appearance of a portal into another world. That world was a vast and dimly-lit space of landing pads and alien shuttlecraft. 

Uhura set them down on the same pad as the Praxidians. As they prepared to get out, she hesitated, and asked, “Captain, are we sure we can trust them?” 

Jim had been wondering the same thing. “If my previous experience with them was any indication, definitely not, so keep your eyes open.” He grimaced. “There’s only three, but any one of them is probably five times as strong as all of us combined.” 

She pulled out her phaser. “So you’re saying stun’s probably not going to get us anywhere?” 

“Doubtful.” 

She flicked the mode switch and locked it, and Jim took out his to do the same. McCoy made a face but followed suit. 

They exchanged a look, and Jim led them to the shuttle hatch. He paused there, memories of the _Dancer_ ’s destruction fresh in his mind all these months later, and felt in his coat pocket. There sat Pike’s old pocket watch; he gripped it tight in his hand. 

_I can do this. It’s going to be fine._

“Jim?”

He glanced back at McCoy, then out the shuttle hatch, and nodded. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and walked down the ramp. 

The hangar yawned around them, packed with smaller craft that looked akin to the ones he’d seen escaping the _Dancer_ as it fell apart. The Praxidian’s current shuttle was significantly different, and rested a hundred or so feet from theirs. He kept his eyes off the script that identified it. 

The General greeted them and lead them down a long, curving corridor to a lift. He had the sense they were traveling not just vertically, but also horizontally. After a silent and tense ride, they exited into what he recognized as a bridge. 

The walls were almost entirely black display glass. A cluster of stations (for systems engineers, he knew) lined the wall opposite the viewscreen, and another--the assistant’s station--sat just to the right of the captain’s chair. The Assistant nodded to Uhura and showed her to it. 

“This will allow you to access our communications systems. We have realigned the arrays to the best of our capabilities, but sending a signal through the halo remains difficult.” With a swipe of her long-fingered hands she gave Uhura access, and they set to work. 

“Well, as lifeboats go, I’ve had worse,” McCoy murmured aside to him in a low voice, and Jim nodded in agreement. It was incredibly clean for a ship that had been sitting for a few hundred years.

After only a handful of minutes, Uhura said, “I think we’ve got something,” and everyone moved to circle around the station. “The halo’s degrading the signal.” The two of them swept and tapped through the controls, processing and reprocessing the stream and sometimes pointing and nodding to one another. A tense minute passed before text began resolving on the panel. “Both ships made it clear,” Uhura read, and smiled.

Jim and McCoy made no attempt to hide their relief. He recognized a similar reaction in the Praxidians.

Uhura and the Assistant had to keep adjusting the receivers to recover as much data as possible. “They received our transmission. There’s still enough of a path out of the halo that they’re trying to come up with a way through it.” Her expression changed, and she straightened and looked over her shoulder at him. He knew he wasn’t going to like what she had to say, and steeled himself. 

“They don’t think it’ll be more than three hours before it closes completely.” 

He looked to the Engineer, then the General. “Is there anything we can do to help them?” 

He saw the General gesture at her, and the Engineer said, “Once the upgrades are complete we will be able to bring the ship’s AI online. This will give us access to basic system functionality.” 

“Like the computers?” 

“Yes.” 

“Is there some way we can get a transporter signal through the path?” 

The Engineer and the Assistant considered that. The Assistant replied, “Unlikely, though worth investigating.” 

He nodded to Uhura, and she began recording a response to send out. The Assistant and the Engineer saw to the upgrades, and Jim took to pacing. There was little in the way of functionality on the bridge, and he moved from section to section, looking but never touching. The General looked over at him now and then but otherwise seemed preoccupied with one of the sole active components near the captain’s chair. 

Jim paused at one of the few active wall panels. It was filled with calculations and sensor data, all in Praxidi script. This should have made it nonsense to him, but his intrusive, other self interpreted the numbers and phrases with ease; this was someone’s first pass at calculating the amount of time left before the halo’s path closed, prior to the white dwarf’s nova, and a collection of readings of the path afterwards. He was disappointed (though maybe also reassured) to see the results were no different than what Spock and Chekov had initially shown him on the _Enterprise_ and what Uhura had been able to glean from their shuttle's meager long range sensors: what had once been a reasonably stable tunnel with a predictable lifespan was now nothing more than a degrading maze of shifting pockets that broke apart and merged at random intervals. 

He got the sense he was being watched, and noticed the Engineer looking away from him. Any reassurance he felt gave way to concern over how easy it was to read the data, and he moved to take a seat back by one of the empty stations. McCoy joined him. 

“So. You were saying?” 

Jim looked at him, then out over the alien bridge. “Sometimes I’ll just, find myself somewhere, and I don’t know what’s happened for the last hour or so.”

“What, like you’re sleepwalking?”

“Yeah, but without the sleeping part.”

McCoy ran a hand over his face. “You don’t do anything? You just, go places?”

“Just to the observation deck.” He shrugged at McCoy’s confused look, and McCoy sighed.

“Well, until we can get you back on the _Enterprise_ I can’t do much except keep an eye on you and sedate you so you’ll sleep.”

Jim coughed a laugh. “No thanks--I want to wake up from these nightmares, not get trapped in them.” 

“Jim, you’re _exhausted_ , anyone can see that just looking at you.” 

“It can wait until we get back.” 

McCoy looked like he was gearing up for a doctor’s speech, and Jim was about to cut him off when he noticed the Engineer was watching them. 

“You really need to start giving a damn about your--what?” He followed Jim’s gaze, and fell silent. 

Jim put a hand on McCoy’s shoulder. “Give me a second,” he said, and got up. The Engineer looked away when he did so, but stayed put when he approached her. 

He kept his voice low. “You were on the...other ship.”

Her fingers worked. “Yes.” She paused, then added, “I am Engineer Xorila,” and looked at him again. Her nervousness at his proximity was acute.

“Xorila. What’s happening to me.” She didn’t reply, and he had to work to keep his voice down. “Don’t act like you haven’t noticed.”

She hesitated, and he realized she was struggling to find a way to describe what she saw. “I am not completely certain. I have never known of a Pilot that lived in another’s mindspace after its service was ended. I have never even read of such a phenomenon.”

It was one thing to have been thinking that to himself; it was another for one of the very engineers who’d done this to him to confirm it. He felt short of breath. “What?”

“You knew what the mosaic was before the General explained it.” She paused, giving him a chance to deny it, and when he didn’t she continued. “You knew this was a warship. You can read our script. You knew the plague was a weapon, not a natural disease. You are aware of our body language. Although it would be possible for some of these things to be imprinted on you from the Pilot, my observations of your condition suggest something much more significant is happening. Given you were once converted, it seems likely that the Pilot resides within you still.”

The General had noticed their conversation and was getting up. Xorila started to continue, but was interrupted when the Assistant’s station lit up with a flash. Uhura ran a hand over it. “We’re getting a response.” 

The General stopped where he was. Jim was at the console in a heartbeat, and McCoy joined him. Xorila drifted closer.

Uhura held perfectly still as she listened, but Jim couldn’t miss the sudden tension in her posture. Her voice caught as she said, “They can’t get either ship through the outer entrance into the path.” 

Jim bit back a curse and turned away. “Is there any way we can get closer to them?” he asked the General. 

“If the ships cannot get through, none of our shuttles, nor yours, would stand more than a fraction of a subcycle within what remains of the path, to say nothing of the halo itself should the path fully disintegrate. Their engines were not designed for it.”

Jim started to pace. It was ludicrous; here they were on a perfectly good ship and--

He stopped.

Before he could think it over and almost certainly decide to not bring it up, he turned to face the General. “You said it was the plague that kept the crew of this ship from escaping, because it killed them all. Not that the ship was damaged.” The General didn’t respond, and Jim pressed on. “Can this ship navigate what’s left of that path?”

Jim knew (or the Pilot knew, and so he did) that the General was giving him a cagey look. “I am curious as to why that matters, Captain Kirk.”

“It can,” Xorila confirmed. Jim saw, out of the corner of his eye, McCoy and Uhura glare at the General in unison. “The warp core is specially designed to make short, precise jumps. Hundreds in a brief time span, if needed.” The General’s nerve bundles writhed as she spoke. 

“You still make ships like this, right? Is there one close enough to come get us?”

The Assistant answered that. “No. The closest vessel of this class, or one which is outfitted similarly, is at least a subcycle distant.”

The General’s hands worked, and Jim wondered how dearly they would pay for what they were revealing. “That is quite enough, Engineer, Assistant.” Jim was sure everyone could hear the irritation in the General’s translated voice.

“But there’s this one. It can still fly, right?” None of the Praxidians contradicted him. “So if we could fly the ship we could get out of here.”

The General gestured so sharply that Uhura’s hand twitched towards her phaser, though she didn’t take it up. “Whether or not it can fly is not at issue. Our ships are not flown by bridge crews or computers. The AI aboard our vessels would be insufficient to the task, and the individual who was intended to fly this ship is still aboard the _Shadow Upon the Sand_.”

“Could one of you do it instead?”

The General flinched in surprise. “What would make you think that is even a possibility?” 

He saw Xorila fidgeting out of the corner of his eye. “Can you or can’t you?”

“It is not certain that we could, but our ability to do so aside, the one who flies the ship must be properly converted to do so. None of us are, and it would take too long to perform, even were we to forgo the necessary preparations, which would be monstrous.” He made no attempt to hide the contempt in his bearing. “What we require is an extent Pilot, and we do not have one.”

_There’s always a choice._

He took a deep breath. “Yes we do.”

No one said anything for several tense seconds. McCoy recovered from his shock first. 

“Are you out of your _mind_?”

The General looked from McCoy to Jim, plainly confused. Jim was only paying attention to Xorila, who was staring at him with awe and not a little fear. “Would you be able to use this ship’s facilities to put me in there?”

Her nerve bundles twitched. “Yes.”

“What is he talking about, Engineer?” It took Jim a moment to realize the General had bypassed the translation software and spoken directly in Praxidian. He saw Uhura’s eyes narrow as she worked through the language. McCoy leaned over to her, and she murmured to him.

“Will I be able to fly the ship?”

She considered him, then said, “Yes.”

The General looked at Xorila, then Jim again. Sudden understanding made his nerve bundles flare. “You were the Fifth Pilot of the _Dancer in the Void_.” His fingers did a complicated dance, then he said to Xorila (letting the software translate again), “How is it that Pilot still exists?” Jim was sure he didn’t imagine the accusation in the General’s voice, and he wondered what fallout there had been surrounding the _Dancer_ ’s loss. 

McCoy snapped, “It doesn’t matter how, _he’s not doing it_.” Uhura didn't look as angry as McCoy, but she was rigid with tension and her displeasure was obvious.

“The Pilot was never excised.”

The General stared at Jim like he’d sprouted new appendages and heads. “Unbelievable.” 

McCoy put himself between Jim and the General and looked Jim straight in the eyes. “What’s unbelievable is that he’s even entertaining the idea.”

“Bones,” he hissed, and McCoy bit back something. Their staring contest ended when McCoy gave in and moved aside. 

It was getting easier and easier to read their gestures. The General was calming down. He gave Xorila a thoughtful look, then said, “Very well,” and she left down one of the halls. The General turned back to Jim. “It would be our honor if you were to serve as the eighth Pilot of the _Twilight’s Shining Teeth_ , Captain Kirk of the _Enterprise_ , and we would be greatly in your debt.” 

“You have no idea,” he said, and then he had to not be on the bridge, so he took a hallway without thinking much on where it might take him.


	7. Chapter 7

***

McCoy was hot on Jim’s heels the entire way down the hall and into the small medical ward. Uhura followed behind them, less agitated but no less concerned. (To Jim’s human eyes the large room looked nothing like a medbay, but the Pilot recognized various pieces of equipment and their purposes.)

“You’re nuts if you think I’m just gonna let you do this.”

“I wouldn’t even consider it if we had any other options, but we don’t. This ship is our only way out of here, and I’m the only one who can fly it.”

“Spock and their people are working on something, why not wait until we hear back?”

“We may not hear back before what’s left of our way out closes. The Assistant’s math agrees with Spock and Chekov’s--once the path closes, there's not going to be a way out for at least a few hundred years.”

McCoy’s voice grew louder. “Surely that engineer can reprogram their AI--”

“You heard the General; the AI’s not going to cut it.”

“Then we’ll think of something else, point is--”

“Bones, this is our best way out.”

“Goddamnit I am _not_ letting you go through that again!” McCoy was shouting by the time he was done. Not for nothing was Jim good friends with Spock, though; he stayed calm in the face of the outburst. McCoy stared at him, desperate and angry, and when it became clear Jim wouldn’t back down, he swore and stormed out of the room.

Jim sighed and ran his hands through his hair. 

Uhura said, “Are you sure this is the only way, and it’s not just you needing to confront it?”

He gave her a wry look for sounding like Spock, which she accepted with equanimity. “Maybe that’s part of it, but it’s not the only part, and definitely not the larger part. This ship can get through. It’s the only way where we all make it out safe.”

“Except maybe for you.” He looked away, unable to meet the look in her eyes, and she sighed. “When are you going to stop pretending that doing this kind of thing doesn’t affect other people?”

“I know it does, Uhura, just...if it has to be someone, it should be me.”

“Why?” 

Of the hundreds of responses he had ready for that, the one he said was, “Because I’m the captain, and that makes it my responsibility.” 

“And who takes responsibility for what happens to you?” He blew out a breath and looked away, shrugging, and she shook her head. “Your friends, Kirk. But only if you let us.” 

He nodded, because he wasn’t sure what to say, and was pretty sure if he didn’t think it through he’d fuck it up. She watched him, waiting, and finally he said, “I’m gonna walk around a bit.” 

“Okay.” 

At least she didn’t look disappointed in him. He stopped on his way out the door and glanced back at her. “Thanks.” 

She answered that with a small smile, which he returned, and then he left. 

He wandered the ship for close to an hour, teetering on the edge of becoming lost in his own head. He thought he could feel it coming on, and would stop to touch some part of the ship, like physical contact would remind him of the body that was his and where it was standing. He wound up doing a circuit and found himself back at the bridge, where Uhura was working on the communications array and the General and the Assistant were conversing on some matter. McCoy wasn’t around, which would have worried him except the path to the lift and from there to the hangar was easy enough to follow. 

The General and the Assistant looked at him when he came in and sat down, then went back to their discussion. He took a seat at one of the engineering stations, and Uhura came to sit next to him. They exchanged a look, and she rubbed one of his arms. 

Xorila came into the room. “Pilot.” 

Everyone turned to look at her. Her eyes flicked between Jim and Uhura, betraying extreme nervousness. “It is ready.” 

*** 

The suit was different than his previous one; the fine links were dark black-blue, and of a heavier material. Xorila explained that was due to a different pattern of connections, which in turn required a different material to form the microfilaments. (Kevin had tried to show him, once, how he thought the metallic threads worked, and Jim had wisely chosen to forgo any visuals.) 

Xorila and Uhura helped him slip it on, and he was surprised to find it was room temperature, almost warm, and not cold like he’d expected. Xorila checked the fit, making sure it was particularly snug along his back. As she tugged here and there, he asked, “What did you mean when you told the General the Pilot hadn’t been excised?” 

Xorila looked up from her work and fidgeted. “Normally, when an adult is placed into service on a ship, their consciousness is sequestered to make room for the Pilot. When their service is complete, the Pilot is removed, and the adult’s self is returned to the proper place.” 

Something inside of him shrank back in horror. “Removed.” He knew the loathing that filled his voice wasn’t just his own. 

“You just get rid of it?” Uhura asked, looking aghast. 

Xorila nodded, and Jim swallowed. He thought she didn’t look too happy to report any of this. “So what’s happening to me is what happens when you don’t excise the Pilot?” 

She hesitated, giving him what he knew was a wary look. “I am uncertain. I have never known it to not be performed.” Her nerve bundles shivered. “The Pilot remains within you, functional, to all appearances. And yet you are yourself as well, and also functional.” 

Jim muttered, “That’s debatable,” and rubbed his eyes. “Can you do it _now_?” He hated to even ask (or maybe that was the Pilot, hating him for asking). 

“Unlikely. By now the Pilot will have shared your mindspace and grown into it. Your experiences and memories since the end of your service are its as well. Any attempt to separate you would do far more harm than good.” 

“Trust me, it’s not good right now.” 

“It would be worse were we to attempt an excision.” 

“So he’s stuck like this?” Uhura looked and sounded angry. 

Xorila considered the question. “The _Shadow Upon the Sand_ has a full Engineering research facility. If you have crew who are of a similar technological skill level as myself, we may be able to work together to find a solution.” 

That mollified Uhura somewhat. She looked at him, and he swallowed. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d pinned his hopes on Spock and Kevin. “I have the best engineers and scientists in the Federation on my ship.” 

Xorila looked satisfied. “The general will be greatly in your debt for this. Convincing him that we should provide our help will be a small matter.” 

Uhura relaxed, and Jim nodded and shook himself out. “Okay.” He licked his lips. “What’s, ah, gonna happen when you put me in there?” 

Xorila was some time in answering. “The Pilot will wish to regain control. You must not allow this. You must work with it as an equal.” 

“And if I can’t?” 

She didn’t answer, though she didn’t really need to. Her posture spoke volumes. He looked askance at Uhura. She started to say something, stopped, and shook her head; the smile she wore was full of regret. He huffed a helpless laugh in reply, then nodded at Xorila. “Got it.” 

As she lead them to the antechamber of the pilothouse, McCoy came to walk alongside him. Uhura flashed the doctor a knowing smile and dropped back. 

“This is still insanity, you know,” McCoy informed him. “And when Spock finds out, he’s gonna be pissed. Still, I can’t let you go through it without at least being here to say ‘I told you so’ if it blows up in our faces." 

Jim thanked McCoy for being there with a smile that didn’t hide his unease. “I have it on good authority that insanity is my middle name.” 

McCoy grunted, then looked over the suit with a critical eye. “How’s it feel?” 

“Weird.” They’d arrived at the antechamber door. Xorila entered her code into the panel beside it, and the door slid open with a soft thump. She went in, but Jim stood rooted in place, scared out of his mind for a handful of seconds. 

His voice low, McCoy asked, “Hey, you okay?” 

Jim swallowed. It was entirely possible he might go in there and never come back out. “Yeah, just...I’m really glad you and Uhura are here.” 

Xorila stood inside the antechamber, watching them. McCoy said, “You don’t have to do this.” 

He thought of the nightmares and the struggle to know what was him and what wasn’t, and above all else them growing old and dying on a cold gray rock, and said, “Yeah, I do.” 

McCoy’s expression hardened. “We didn’t lose you last time and we won’t this time. It’s that simple.” 

Jim nodded, took a deep breath, and stepped into the room. Inside of it was a small, silvery green pod not unlike the one he’d laid in on the _Dancer_. When Xorila touched a spot on its surface, Praxidi script raced over the top, glowing red and blue, and it split open. The interior was the same as before, padded with a black, soft, foam-like material. 

McCoy and Xorila helped him get settled in it; it was quite comfortable, really. 

He took a deep breath and let it out, then nodded at Xorila. She tapped a few keys on the pod’s surface, and the lid closed over him. 

He had to work to keep from panicking as the close darkness of the pod’s interior clung to him. He heard the metallic clink of the snakechains attaching to the suit, then a slight tingle all along his head, neck, and back as the filaments went in. A shiver raced down his spine, and the clinging black cocoon evaporated into something else completely.


	8. Chapter 8

*** 

Xorila led Uhura and McCoy back to the bridge, explaining the rest of the process could be monitored there, and the bridge seats offered restraints for what promised to be a turbulent ride. The Assistant had brought up the AI, which was awaiting orders. Xorila nodded at him, and the General said, “AI, please initiate the launch sequence.” 

“Greetings General Vorredyrix. Launch sequence commencing for the _Twilight’s Shining Teeth_.” Uhura’s software left the Praxidian overtones of clicks, buzzes, and hums but otherwise the translation was perfect. She was pleased that it worked even through the ship’s own audio systems, and savored the victory. 

From somewhere near the middle of the ship a high-pitched whine spun up, then gave way to a low-voiced drone. Sections of the bridge lit around them in a wave of flickering light. 

“Warp core online.” 

The viewscreen flashed to life and showed the dull gray hills of the planet with their icy blue and white trees and slick rocks. Along one side, Praxidian script flowed by and filled in empty spaces. 

“Primary shielding system online. Long-range sensors online. Commencing weapons systems testing.” As it read off each item data panels became active, though the majority of them remained dark. 

*** 

The moment the suit began syncing with the system the Pilot was there and trying to become the majority of them. He fought, the terror of what had happened last time at the forefront of his mind, and the Pilot fought back in turn. They engaged in this struggle for a handful of painful seconds (which in his mindspace was like years), then the Pilot simply stopped and pulled back. The ship awoke around them, and they felt the various portions of the grid light up and become available. There were things they needed to do, processes to nudge along here and there from this quasi-rest state, until it was time to complete the connection to the ship. 

Once Jim was certain the Pilot was waiting for him to make the first move, he reached out to it. He wouldn’t let the Pilot run the show this time. They had to be on equal terms. Their survival (and the survival of everyone on the ship) depended on their ability to work together. 

The Pilot was some time in responding, and when it did reach out to him in turn, he felt that it was afraid. (Maybe it was just a reflection of his own fear.) For months now it had been crushed under the weight of Jim’s consciousness, trying to find a way to exist. Worse yet was the new and terrible knowledge of what _should_ have happened to it; that this shadow of being was only allowed due to a mistake. 

Jim promised that wasn’t on the agenda, since it wasn’t even possible now. If they did this, it would be as two halves of the same whole. Integration rather than excision. They had to come to an understanding that there was no way to survive at war with one another, because it was only a war against themselves. Such a war could have only one conclusion. 

The Pilot’s agreement came in the form of a suggestion of what process to wake first. Jim didn’t know how to do that. The Pilot showed him how. 

*** 

The ship’s AI rolled through its scripted duties, providing updates at steady intervals. McCoy paced around the bridge with restless energy; Uhura watched the readouts, growing tenser by the second. 

“Weapons systems testing completed: all weapons grids are functioning within optimal operational range. Communications systems online. Subspace array alignment is optimal for the current broadcasting frequency. Secondary shielding system online.” There was a lengthy pause, then, “Please stand by for Pilot acquisition.” 

Uhura closed her eyes and prayed this would work. 

*** 

The ship thrummed around them, ready for the final step. The main grid reached out with the same words that had haunted Jim’s nightmares for weeks. 

_You are the Pilot._

Jim was afraid. The gruesome details of what had come before his service on the _Dancer_ assailed him anew, and knowing that wouldn’t happen this time didn’t dispel them. He held back, unable and unwilling to answer. 

The Pilot reassured him that there would be no severing of him from himself, because the Pilot wouldn’t (couldn’t) allow that to happen. They had agreed they needed to act together, and if their survival was intertwined, then protecting itself meant protecting Jim. The Pilot had every intention of doing that to the limits of its capabilities. He had taken the Pilot’s fear and offered it his courage, and now it did the same in turn, because the Pilot’s fears were his own, and the Pilot’s confidence was also his own. 

_You are the Pilot._

His expectations would only interfere with what he needed to do, so he let them fall away. A stillness settled over him, and the potential of what came next hovered just beyond his reach, gathering like the dust that formed stars. 

He answered the call with the Pilot’s voice. 

_I am the Pilot._

*** 

“Pilot engaged.” 

The sight and sound of the rest of the ship coming to life was impressive all on its own, but what sent the chill down Uhura’s spine was what followed it: her captain’s voice, speaking through the translation filter with Praxidian overtones. 

“This is the eighth Pilot of the _Twilight’s Shining Teeth_ , online and ready for operations.” 

Out of the corner of her eye Uhura saw one of McCoy’s hands form into fists. “Jim?” His voice was tight with anger. 

“It’s me, Bones. That part’s kind of automatic.” 

Uhura relaxed a fraction. It sounded like him, anyways. 

The General seated himself in the captain’s chair, and the Assistant moved to stand to his right. “What’s the status of the ship, Pilot?” 

McCoy gave the General a murderous look, which the General either didn’t understand or chose to ignore. Uhura met McCoy’s eyes to show him she understood his frustration, and he stalked back to one of the engineers’ stations, taking a seat next to Xorila. 

“I’ll need a partial subcycle to finalize everything. I’m going to put the ship in orbit first. Uhura, I want you to send one last transmission once we’re orbiting the planet.” 

“Will do, Captain.” 

Though she knew little of Praxidian body language, Uhura thought Vorredyrix looked pleased. “Excellent. Begin at your discretion.” 

Uhura caught McCoy giving Vorredyrix another disgusted look, and sighed to herself. She hoped Kirk could get them out of the nebula, because the chances of McCoy not trying to kill Vorredyrix were getting slimmer all the time. 

“Engaging docking thrusters.” 

The ship trembled, then began to rise as the docking thrusters pushed it free of the valley floor. On the viewscreen hundreds of trees bent and snapped, shattering into gleaming shards, landslides spilled down the valley walls, and the skin of plants and ice and rocks that had coated the ship rained down. They climbed until the ship was clear of the valley walls, which offered them a sweeping view of the horizon. They stayed there for several seconds, and Uhura wondered if Kirk wasn’t admiring the view as well. Then he said, “Engaging impulse engines and setting a course for transpolar orbit. ETA two minutes.” 

The planet fell away beneath them as the ship climbed towards space. Just as they entered their orbit, they came into view of the system’s red dwarf breaking over the arc of the planet, and Uhura smiled to herself. Of course he was still Jim Kirk, and would want to see that at least once before they left.


	9. Chapter 9

***

All Praxidi ships were designed for atmospheric as well as space maneuvers, which made putting the ship into a transpolar orbit the easiest part. (He allowed himself and everyone on board the brief joy of the red dwarf rising along the planet's horizon, because how often would he get to simply decide to do that.) Once that was done, he allotted an hour for prep time; any longer and the crumbling path would be too far gone for even the _Twilight_ to manage.

It was as different a ship from the _Dancer_ as could be possible, and the connection felt a great deal more intense. The grid was a dull roar around him, like a waterfall the size of a continent, and he was sensitive to even the slightest shift in gravity or fluctuation of the shields. It all went with the territory, of course: despite its age, the _Twilight_ was a warship of the highest caliber, and the precision with which it was meant to be flown was reflected in what was made available to him.

Thankfully the warp core was designed for incredible levels of abuse, and apart from familiarizing himself with how to control it he didn’t need to spend much time adjusting it. The computing clusters and the shields needed work, however, and when he was done, almost half of the ship was blacked out and sealed off to make more power available to them. 

The others had occupied themselves in a variety of ways while he worked. Uhura had sent her last communication out, in the hope the _Twilight_ wouldn’t escape the nebula only to face a load of phaserfire, and was now refining the communications array; Xorila and McCoy had been discussing something in low voices (maybe how they were going to fix him once this was all over); and the General and his assistant had paid close attention to what he was doing to the ship. 

He resolved himself on the viewscreen--his human self, which made the Assistant twitch--and said, “Alright everyone.” They all left off what they were doing to look at him. “I’m leaving the viewscreen off until we get out.” 

“Thank you,” McCoy said. 

“It’s as much for me as you, the last thing I want is you throwing up all over my bridge.” 

“Well since you put it like that I just might anyways.” 

He rolled his eyes and went on. “I’m strapping everyone in. I’ve increased the bridge shielding but there’s only so much I can do about the suspension. Most of the ship is sealed off, but the halls and lifts from here to the hangar bay where we landed the shuttles are shielded and open.” He didn’t need to specify why, and saw in the set of McCoy’s jaw and the determination in Uhura’s eyes that they wouldn’t be making use of those shuttles without him. 

The six-point, snakechain harnesses slipped into place around each of them. McCoy looked nervous until Xorila showed him where the emergency release was, then relaxed. 

He switched the viewscreen to a ship status graphic and shut off his display. After a final once-over of the navigation systems, he pulled the first set of jump coordinates forward and waited for the right fluctuation in the labyrinth’s waves. 

The narrow tunnel of their first clear path opened. He warned them, “Here we go,” then spun the core into action with a flicker of thought. 

The ship shot to warp so fast it took his breath away. 

*** 

If he had thought the _Dancer_ ’s flight from the Collindran warships had been a scramble, it was nothing compared to navigating the nebula’s halo. 

Jets of plasma formed without warning, cutting off routes and making new ones. Gravitational wells yanked the _Twilight_ every which way as they waxed and waned. Billowing clouds of dust and gas buffeted the ship, destabilizing the warp field and shoving the ship off course with frustrating regularity. And once they cleared the last of the star’s rings the going got considerably worse. 

Their passage gave way to a wave of plasma and the warp field collapsed under the strain. The currents of the halo swallowed the ship and began to bear it wherever they saw fit. These weren’t large, gentle waves, though; they were tiny, and the ship started vibrating so hard that he wasn’t sure it would hold together. He adjusted the shields’ frequencies and dampened the effect on the bridge as much as he could. At least none of them had been wrenched out of their seats. 

A corridor leading out of the chaos opened and he dove the ship at it, and was rewarded with clear space for a handful of seconds. Though they were moving at nearly warp six, it felt like the ship was coasting, the ride was so smooth compared to those last horrible minutes. 

This new tunnel was twisting and corkscrewing in dizzying patterns, but it was large enough that the borders weren’t interfering with the warp field just yet. He took the opportunity and set the navigational computers to re-calculating a series of routes. This path was a switchback, but it would take them around the large anomaly he’d been avoiding at all costs. It was too dense to be just another collection of dust and gas, and he was worried it might be a protostar close to formation. 

The tunnel tightened dangerously, and he looked at his options. None of them were very good, so he went with his instincts, choosing the one that felt right. 

No sooner were they in the new lane than a gravity well tried to drag the ship towards the anomaly, and his immediate reaction was to resist. Another part of him suggested a different possibility, though--instead of this frantic dodging back and forth, he could use the nebula’s landscape to his advantage. If a gravity well pulled, he shouldn’t push, he should make its power his own. While it was true they were in a race for their lives, with the maze’s collapse imminent, that didn’t make a mad dash their best option. 

He turned the ship into the gravity well, concentrating instead on evading the plumes of dust and plasma that it took them through. Their speed crept up, and up, to the point where the warp core began to complain. He adjusted their course just so, into a narrow gap between two churning dust lanes. Their built up momentum tore them free of the gravity well and sent them careening towards another. 

He fell into a rhythm, letting the results of the navigational systems’ calculations guide him. It was no less exhausting, but it led to less acute strain on the ship and himself, and the later was becoming more relevant the longer their escape took. 

Exhaustion threatened and he was starting to worry he couldn’t get them out when they dropped out of warp into open space as far as the sensors could read. He was so surprised by the change that he brought the ship to a stop and hovered there. 

On the bridge they were wondering what was going on, so he showed them by enabling the viewscreen. In front of them hovered two ships, one night-black, the other pale grey white, and behind them the nebula’s halo shimmered. 

They’d made it out. 

*** 

After so much motion and speed it was disorienting in the extreme to sit there, out of warp, with dust and plasma seething off the ship’s shields. He felt rattled and close to blacking out from the sudden absence of the strain he’d battling. (Losing consciousness right now would be dangerous with the ship so precariously reorganized around his recent needs, so he concentrated on not letting that happen, and was sure it was the Pilot he had to thank for the ability to do so.) 

The _Enterprise_ and the _Shadow_ were scanning them. He dropped the shields so they could see everything they needed to, and told himself it was just his imagination that it felt like he himself was being poked and prodded in strange and uncomfortable ways. He waited for them to hail, because he knew they would, and until then he planned to let himself wind down. (In the back of his mind the sensors informed him the maze was all but disintegrated.) He focused on the two ships before him. 

Looking at the _Enterprise_ through the _Twilight_ ’s sensors was an amazing thing. He’d thought he had an intimate knowledge of her already, yet that had been his own vanity as the captain. Only now, suspended in space as her peer, was he scratching the surface of such understanding. 

He felt a signal brush against the communications array, and was surprised to find a channel he’d never noticed before. He recognized its purpose despite the lack of familiarity; this was the channel all Pilots used to interact privately. He responded, driven by a need to connect to another Pilot, if only just once. 

The other Pilot’s introduction was a complex construct of emotion and thought. They were shy because they were young and had only met two other Pilots, and they were also curious, because his signature was wholly unlike those other two. An undercurrent of surprise cut through these reactions; they had brought a Pilot for this ship, and yet here he was, already in service. 

He realized he had no idea how to formulate a multilayered reply, and stuck to the basics. He admitted that he’d never met another Pilot at all. 

The other’s surprise redoubled; hadn’t he just flown a warship through a fluctuating nebula? Surely no inexperienced Pilot would have been tasked with such a difficult mission. 

He revealed he’d only been piloting the _Twilight_ for a fraction of a subcycle, and that his service was from necessity alone, and his previous ship had been destroyed when he was only eighteen cycles in service. 

There was a lengthy pause, then the other Pilot’s stunned realization came across like a cold breath in his own chest: _Dancer_ ’s Fifth. 

He didn’t deny it. The _Shadow_ ’s Pilot expressed amazement, and not, to his surprise, doubt. It occurred to him the connection between them might be such that lying would be a pointless exercise, and it took some effort to not pull away from the implied intimacy. His guarded nature would gain him nothing here. 

He wondered how they could know about him, and the _Shadow_ ’s Pilot flooded him with the stories that had sprung up in the wake of the _Dancer_ ’s destruction. It was strange, to have what he’d experienced relayed back to him in such vivid imagery, with the added perspective of the crew and captain, and stranger still to know it had spread far and wide among the Praxidi fleet’s ships. And now, added to that, his unbelievable survival and the flight of the _Twilight’s Shining Teeth_ through a halo that few ships had ever navigated. (The _Shadow_ ’s Pilot was ever so proud they would get to add that part.) 

He was excruciatingly embarrassed, and hoped none of this would reach Spock or McCoy. (Please, please not McCoy.) The _Shadow_ ’s Pilot didn’t seem to understand his reaction, except to recognize they might want to change topics, so they did that. They wondered if he would be taken out of service, since they were carrying a new Pilot. 

He told them this was certain, and that Pilot would be _Twilight_ ’s Ninth. 

The other Pilot seemed sad to hear this, and they were honored to have met him. 

The possibility of remaining a Pilot wasn’t something he’d even considered, but for a few brief seconds he savored the impossible idea. He knew, if he told the General he wanted to, that it would be done; there would be nothing the crew of the _Enterprise_ would be able to do to stop it from happening. But that same crew was the very reason he couldn’t: he owed them far too much as their captain, and he owed some of them so much more as a friend. 

He thanked the _Shadow_ ’s Pilot, returning those same sentiments in kind, then turned his attention back to the _Enterprise_ , which was hailing them.


	10. Chapter 10

*** 

Uhura had never been happier to see the _Enterprise_ in her life. The _Twilight_ ’s viewscreen split and displayed the _Enterprise_ ’s bridge on one half, with Spock standing in front of the captain’s chair, hands clasped behind his back. 

Next to her, McCoy said, “Spock, you have no idea how good it is to see you guys again.” 

She didn’t miss Spock’s scanning of the _Twilight_ ’s bridge, eyes pausing at herself and McCoy, then narrowing. 

“Doctor. Lieutenant. I am glad a solution was available which allowed you to return to us. Where is the captain?” 

“I’m here, Spock.” 

Chekov started and peered down at his station’s display; Sulu leaned over to look as well. Spock glanced over their shoulders, then looked back at the viewscreen. Uhura was maybe the only one who knew him well enough to read the subtle reaction that played over his features (aside from Kirk). “As I cannot see you and your communication is coming direct to the ship over the main frequency, am I correct in assuming you are piloting that vessel?” 

“You are.” 

Spock’s mouth set in a forbidding line. McCoy said, “I told him you’d be pissed.” 

Somehow Kirk made his exasperation clear enough to survive the translation software. “We will have this conversation _later_.” 

“Indeed we will,” Spock said. Uhura had to work to keep a smile off her face. 

Kirk’s tone telegraphed that he was ignoring that last part. “The Praxidians are bringing the other Pilot over now. Spock, I need you and Riley to transport here so you can come with McCoy and I to the other ship.” 

Spock glanced at McCoy, and Uhura saw the doctor give him a hard look. Spock nodded minutely. 

“Spock to Professor Riley.” 

“Riley here.” 

“Professor, if you could please come to Transporter Room Three.” 

“On my way, Commander.” 

“Mr. Sulu, you have the conn.” 

“Yes sir.” 

Reading body language over a viewscreen was always tricky, but Uhura was sure Spock’s eyes met hers as he made his way to the turbolift, and that he wore the ghost of a smile for a fraction of a second. 

*** 

Spock and Riley arrived on the ship with little fanfare. McCoy had hoped for a few minutes to speak to them in private, but he didn’t get the chance; no sooner had they come off the shuttle than the General greeted them and turned them all over to Xorila, who led them through the ship’s corridors to the pilothouse antechamber. Inside was another systems engineer with chitin in an eye-popping shade of lime green, who introduced himself as Qoryl of the _Shadow Upon the Sand_. Two other groups of Praxidians stood inside along the walls; a pair to one side, and a knot clustered around something that McCoy couldn’t see. 

Xorila went to one of the panels and performed a series of gestures, then said, “Pilot?” 

“Here.” 

McCoy grimaced. He’d been listening to Jim’s voice through a Praxidian translation filter for over two hours, and it was still uncomfortable to hear. 

A panel flickered, and there was Jim, or at least a rendering of him in his black undersuit from the chest up. Kevin stared with obvious amazement, but Uhura grimaced and Spock, even through his usual manner, seemed impatient. 

Xorila addressed the display. “We will now place you in stasis and move you to the engineering facility of the _Shadow Upon the Sand_. Engineer Qoryl will accompany you and your crewmembers.” 

“But not you.” Jim looked hesitant, even concerned. McCoy had to admit he wasn’t keen on Jim being handed over to another Praxidian; at least they had some sort of rapport with Xorila. 

“No, I must oversee the installation of the _Twilight_ ’s next Pilot. I will visit you on the _Shadow_ as soon as I may.” 

“Okay.” Jim hesitated, then said, “Thanks.” 

“We have done little to earn your thanks, Pilot, but you have done a great deal for us. It is we who thank you, for the return of our vessel, and the lives of the crew of the _Dancer in the Void_.” 

Jim looked like he was going to refute that, then his expression changed to something more somber. “Ah, you’re welcome.” McCoy could almost imagine the embarrassed gestures he would have made if he’d been standing there; in their place, there was only a small pause, then Jim said, “Okay. Here goes nothing,” and the rendering winked out. 

Xorila swept her hand across another panel. “AI, please disengage the Pilot.” 

“Confirmed, Engineer Xorila. Placing the Eighth Pilot into stasis.” 

Numerous displays in the antechamber flashed and went dark. Around them there was the sense of various sections of the ship falling silent. On the few panels still lit, script and diagrams flew by too fast for McCoy to follow (not that he could read them anyways), then the AI announced, “Pilot disengaged.” 

The shutter hatch opened, and the white, articulated arm slowly pulled the silver-green pod into the antechamber. McCoy caught a glimpse of the pilothouse itself before the hatch closed, something he’d only heard Spock and Scotty describe: a large, spherical room lined with cabling and wires and ringed along the top and bottom with running lights in white, yellow, and blue. 

Xorila began tapping various locations on the pod’s surface. Symbols and script followed wherever her fingers touched. “All vital signs are stable.” She nodded at Qoryl, then went over to the knot of other engineers, and he took her place. 

Qoryl looked to Spock. “Engineer Xorila has indicated your desire to contribute to finding a solution to this one’s unique situation. As we have limited knowledge of human neuroengineering, your contributions will be necessary to ensure success.” He included Kevin, Uhura, and McCoy in this statement with a measured look at each of them. 

“Absolutely,” Kevin said, and McCoy thought he sounded on edge. 

Spock nodded in agreement. “We will assist in any way required.” 

“Then we will proceed to the _Shadow Upon the Sand_. The facilities there are more appropriate to this endeavor.” His nerve bundles twitched, and the two engineers who had been lingering out of the way stepped forward. Qoryl tapped the surface of the pod and it slipped free of the arm, and he nodded for them to follow him. The other two fell in behind them, guiding the pod, which hovered in perfect silence. 

As they made their way down the hall McCoy glanced back over his shoulder. Just before the antechamber door shut, he saw Xorila and the other engineers settling a yellow-metallic pod onto the white arm. 

*** 

He didn’t hear Xorila’s command to the AI so much as feel it. The various subsystems of the ship slipped free of him and the AI swept in to gather them up. The main grid was the last one to go; when that connection closed, he felt like a ship whose anchorline had been cut. The AI’s signal grew weaker and weaker as the currents of his mindspace, no longer constrained by the ship’s systems, bore him away on their internal tide. 

After the organized cacophony of the _Twilight_ , his own mind was a welcome respite. The only sounds came from his memories and thoughts, which coalesced into the rhythmic rise and fall of ocean waves. (They were his and the Pilot’s, really, yet it was impossible to tell where one of them stopped and the other started, and he imagined that meant there wasn’t much of a difference anymore.) He drifted between stars and comets and nebulae and rings of rock and ice, and marveled at how very much he had seen in such a short life, and how much more there was still to explore. 

He relaxed, waiting for the inevitable moment when he’d wake, and hoped he could bring even a tiny sliver of the peace he felt with him.


	11. Chapter 11

*** 

“When you said you thought there was always a choice, I didn’t think this was what you had in mind.” 

Jim smiled at Uhura, or rather this idea of her that lurked in the back of his mind. 

“You just think I’m incapable of compromise.” 

“Won’t back down from a fight, is how I would put it.” 

“Stubborn?” 

“Recalcitrant.” 

He laughed and looked at the field of brown and white dwarfs that spread out around them. A pulsar spun nearby, lending its flickering light to the otherwise dim, quiet starscape. “I’m not so stubborn I’d rather die than learn how to work together with someone.” 

“Even if it means giving up some of what’s you?” 

“I didn’t actually have to give up anything, that’s the best part.” She looked dubious, and he shrugged, admitting, “Okay, sure, I got rid of some things, but it’s like when you move in with someone and have to toss some of your crap so there’s enough space--it’s probably stuff you didn’t really need or want anyways, and you’re getting something way better in the bargain.” 

“Isn’t that still giving up part of yourself?” 

“Sure, if every single piece of unnecessary bullshit in your life is ‘yourself’, but come on, who doesn’t want to get rid of unnecessary bullshit when they get the chance?” 

She arched an eyebrow. “You’d be surprised.” 

“Well, I’m not one of those people.” 

“No? Then who are you?” Now she smiled at him. “What’s your name?” 

He raised his chin and gave her a triumphant grin. “I’m James Tiberius Kirk. The Pilot.” 

*** 

Jim woke up with a gasp and tried to sit up, and was met with a strong hand on his chest that shoved him back down onto a bed. 

“Not so fast,” McCoy said. “Do that again and I’m gonna have Spock hit you with his Vulcan neck business.” 

His eyes were having trouble focusing. He could make out two--no, three, blueish blobs, and one red blob, and one bright green blob. (He was reasonably sure the bright green blob was Engineer Qoryl.) A close, warm feeling enclosed him and even seemed to reach inside of him all along his spine, from his head to the small of his back. In contrast the air was bitterly cold on his exposed hands and feet and face. 

“Captain.” 

That came from the middle of the three blue shapes, which were stubbornly refusing to coalesce into people. “Spock.” 

“Please remain still. We are removing the suit. You will find it easier to adjust once it is off.” 

As the warmth receded his senses crept back in. Within a matter of minutes he could see and smell and hear with perfect clarity, and it was overwhelming, though not nearly as overwhelming as the fact that he was also naked and freezing cold. 

As soon as the suit was off they wrapped him up in a thermal blanket, which he gripped around himself like that would let him suck the heat out of it and into all the parts of him that felt like blocks of ice. McCoy gave him a shot (“You and your goddamned shots,” he managed to whisper between chattering teeth, and McCoy scoffed at him) and explained it might take a few hours for his body to readjust to the less than ideal environs outside the stasis pod. McCoy and Qoryl then stepped aside to have a conversation (Jim hoped it wasn’t the kind where McCoy caused a diplomatic incident), and left him to Spock, Kevin, and Uhura. 

Spock had put a facade over how very frustrated he was with him, but it lurked in his eyes. Kevin and Uhura, at least, seemed happy to see him awake. 

He wasted no time with pleasantries. “Were you able to, ah...” He tapped one temple with a shaking hand. 

Kevin looked askance at Spock, then said, “Well, that part was kind of interesting.” 

_Nothing is ever easy._ “Good interesting, or bad interesting?” 

“Good. We think.” 

“You _think_?” 

“When we looked at the imaging--you should see the equipment they have on that ship, Jim, it’s nothing short of incredible--we couldn’t find any real separation between you and the other entity.” 

Jim blinked, then looked at Spock for confirmation. Spock explained, “There did not appear to be any need to integrate your consciousness with that of the Pilot, as it had already occurred.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“Neither did they,” McCoy drawled. Qoryl was gone, and the doctor had joined them. He pulled out a tri-corder and began scanning Jim’s head, which Jim kept still for out of habit. 

Kevin said, “They think it might’ve happened when you were hooked up to the ship. The need to use a single mind when interfacing with it may have caused you to merge with the Pilot.” 

Jim felt fear grip him, and McCoy’s tri-corder chirped. “Hey, calm down, or you’re getting sedated,” McCoy snapped. Jim made himself take several slow, deep breaths. 

“What’s wrong?” Kevin asked, leaning over to look at McCoy’s tablet. 

“You said I’m...merged with it. Does that mean I’m not me, anymore?” 

Kevin looked to be at a loss. Spock said, “Quite the opposite,” and Jim relaxed a fraction. His expression must have conveyed the level of his anxiety, because Spock continued, “If their equipment and readings are to be trusted--and the professor, Dr. McCoy, and I could find no fault with them--then in every meaningful sense, you remain Jim Kirk, and are now also the Pilot. These entities are the same person, and that person is you.” 

Jim struggled to follow what Spock was saying. Finally he decided there was only one thing he was really concerned about. “No more nightmares and no more two of me and no more zoning out?” 

“We’re going to monitor you for a few days,” Kevin said, “but the Praxidians seemed to think that would stop.” 

He took a shuddering breath and let it out. “Okay.” 

Qoryl returned and asked for a moment of Kevin’s time. Uhura glanced at Spock, then excused herself. 

_Here we go_ , Jim thought, and resettled the blanket around himself. Now that he was acclimating he adjusted it with an eye towards modesty. 

“Why did you agree to pilot their ship?” Spock asked. 

Jim tried not to squirm. “We were running out of time and pretty short on options.” 

“We might have found a way through the halo even after the path’s collapse, particularly one which would not involve you subjecting yourself to the very circumstances which have recently caused you so much mental injury.” 

McCoy added, “What he said,” and gave Jim an annoyed look, probably for having to agree with Spock. 

Jim marveled at how Spock could make clear his frustration without raising his voice or expressing it in his posture in the least. (Or maybe Jim just knew him that well.) He rolled a section of the blanket between his fingers. “We might have found a way. But we also _had_ a way, and there was the chance that if we passed it up, we might not make it out at all. They’d been trying for hundreds of years and never found one.” He looked at Spock, then McCoy. “You’re my responsibility. I have to put the crew first. That’s just how it is.” 

McCoy sucked in a breath to say something, and Spock held up his hand. McCoy looked at him, then subsided, settling for looking fierce. 

“While I am glad you take your responsibility to the crew so seriously, it would be more appropriate for you to do so without endangering your life.” 

“Don’t hold your breath,” McCoy muttered. He crossed his arms over his chest. 

Jim ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “I’m still working out how to do that.” 

“Not deciding to do crazy, suicidal things would be a fantastic start.” 

“The doctor is correct that this would be a way to prevent such issues from arising.” Spock paused, then said, “You should consider seeing the ship’s counselor.” 

McCoy arched an eyebrow. Jim looked down at the bed, then nodded. He really did feel like squirming now. “Okay. I will.” 

“You’ll do it, or you’ll think about it?” 

“I’ll do it.” 

McCoy blinked, and murmured to Spock, “That was easier than I thought it would be.” Spock kept watching Jim. Jim met his gaze, and Spock looked away first. 

“I believe someone else wishes to speak with you.” 

He turned and saw Xorila standing in the entrance to the room. One of her hands was curled around something, though he couldn’t make out what. 

Spock and McCoy stepped a polite distance away as she approached. “Engineer Qoryl tells me that integration was not necessary.” 

“That’s ah, what they told me too. Something about flying the ship making it happen.” 

“It was not a possibility I had considered, but then I am not a neuroengineer. We will be some time in going over the results of the tests. We will send you any information we obtain from them, of course.” 

“I don’t want you using it to do this to other non-Praxidians. Actually I want you to stop doing that, period. I’m lucky. Someone else may not be.” 

“We will not use these data for such a thing. That I can assure you. If anything, they may help us to perform integration instead of excision.” That possibility buoyed his mood. “And the General’s involvement in a push to prevent future conversions of non-Praxidians should make it more likely to succeed.” 

“How do I know you can deliver on those things?” 

She considered his question, then said, “The same way I knew you would be able to bring us out of the halo.” 

He let out a breath and nodded at her. She held out her closed hand and opened it; resting in her palm were two rings, one coppery red and the other blue-black. 

He knew what they were, but she explained anyways. “Among our people you would wear the proof of your service as an augmentation, but as that is not something your kind do, we spoke with your neuroengineer, and he suggested this instead.” 

He told himself he wasn’t fully acclimated, and that’s why his hand shook when he took them. There was script engraved into the outside of each band; he ran his fingers along the words, reading them by touch, then gripped them tight. 

“Thanks.” 

She nodded and said, “Farewell, Pilot. Though it is unlikely we will meet again, should that come to pass I hope it will be under better circumstances.” 

“That makes two of us.” 

She gave him a formal gesture and bow, then left. He laid back on the bed, suddenly exhausted, and for once he didn’t protest when McCoy gave him an injection that promised to knock him out. He fell asleep still holding the rings in his hand.


	12. Chapter 12

*** 

He woke up in medbay, back in his regulation undersuit and feeling surprisingly well rested. The rings were sitting on a small tray set up next to his bed, which also held a glass of water. They’d put him in one of the privacy corners with the curtain drawn shut, which did nothing to muffle the sounds of medbay but did allow him some idea of personal space. 

Gaila was getting up from her seat on a chair by the bed. Her stiff movements suggested she’d been there for some time. She came to stand next to him, looking aloof and angry in a way he knew all too well. It occurred to him that she might well decide she was done with his bullshit, and he regretted that he hadn’t taken that into consideration before agreeing to pilot the ship. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, making sure he held her eyes when he said it. That was one of the things she thought was important, looking someone in the eye when making such statements. “I couldn’t run the risk of McCoy and Uhura being stranded in there when there was a chance at getting them out.” 

She made him wait a full half a minute before her expression broke. She reached down and took one of his hands, holding it tight. “We need to work on this deathwish of yours.” 

He smiled at her, feeling giddy with relief. “I really don’t want to die, it’s just this kind of thing keeps happening to me.” 

“Uhura calls you the galaxy’s insanity magnet.” 

He laughed. “Really? What does she call Spock?” 

“Mmm, you’re gonna have to work for that one.” 

He cursed the fact that they were in medbay. “I’ll get started as soon as they let me out of here.” 

She ran a hand through his hair, giving him a languid look, then let go of his hand and stepped back. Before Jim could say anything else, she slipped away through one corner of the screen a handful of seconds before McCoy shoved the opposite end of it aside. “Oh, good, you’re awake.” He didn’t seem to notice Gaila exiting the medbay (or maybe he just didn’t care). 

Jim refused to let himself wish McCoy would go away, but it was a near thing. “How long was I out?” 

“Two days.” 

“Two _days_?” 

“It would’ve been longer, but M’Benga convinced me to let you wake up.” 

From somewhere over by a lab bench M’Benga called, “You can thank me by not proving me wrong.” 

Jim blew out a breath. “So you’ve been drugging me this whole time.” 

“It was the best way to keep you in here while you recovered.” McCoy ran a tri-corder over him. “How do you feel?” 

“Pretty good, actually.” He reached over and took the rings, rolling each one between his fingers in turn. “What do I have to do to get you to let me out of here?” 

“Have good test results.” McCoy sent the data to his tablet and began paging through it. Jim leaned over, trying to see, and McCoy snorted at him and offered it. 

Nothing looked off to him, but of course, he wasn’t a doctor. He looked up at McCoy, who admitted, “You’re fine, but don’t expect Spock to agree to you taking a shift until tomorrow.” 

“Thanks.” Jim tried to make his sincerity clear by holding McCoy’s gaze. After a second McCoy accepted by sighing and taking his tablet back. 

“I promise you, the next time, the sedatives come _before_ you try to execute any brilliant plans.” 

“Got it.” 

“Don’t let me catch you on the bridge until tomorrow.” 

He slipped off the bed and reached for his boots. “You won’t.” 

He knew exactly where he was going to go. 

*** 

The galley was quiet, with only a few crew scattered around. Despite being quick about getting his food, no less than a half-dozen of them said hello or came over to ask him a question. Unlike the last time he’d come back, it felt good to talk to the crew, and he didn’t try to avoid them. It felt good to be back on the ship. 

The rear observation deck was deserted. He took a corner table that was flush to the glass and worked through his meal in small bites, staring out at the stars as the Enterprise raced to its next destination. 

When he’d been losing time, he’d often come to one of the two decks (though mostly the forward deck, which didn’t have a partial view of the nacelles). Once he’d even had his hands on the glass. (Gaila had found him that time.) 

He worried that his desire to eat there now was indicative of a stronger influence from the Pilot than he might otherwise be comfortable with, then dismissed the concern just as quickly. If there was more Pilot than Jim Kirk, he’d have asked for the General to keep him in service. He hadn’t. 

“Can I assume this will be a new habit of yours?” 

Though he hadn’t heard Spock come in, Jim had hoped he would show up sooner or later. He smiled and nodded at the table’s other seat. “Tradition. Habit makes it sound like it’s a bad thing.” 

Spock took it and settled himself. “Habits are not inherently bad or good; the habit itself defines whether or not it will be beneficial or detrimental.” 

“Tradition also sounds more important.” 

Spock nodded, allowing him that much. “Is this tradition meant to honor or celebrate something?” 

He nodded. “That everything we experience out here changes us, and we shouldn’t let that keep us from exploring further.” He swirled his glass of water, wishing it was beer. (McCoy had told him no alcohol for at least three more days, and he figured the least he could do after everything else was stick to that.) 

“Some of us more so than others.” 

Spock was giving him a measured look. He held it long enough to covey his understanding, then took a sip of water. “Some of us have a lot of changing to do.” 

“So long as it is change you wish to make.” 

After some false starts, he said, “I didn’t want this, it just happened. But everyone survived, and now I can probably live with it.” 

Spock nodded. “Overcoming a dire situation and recovering to health are certainly things to celebrate.” 

Jim smiled at him and looked back out over the stars and the ship’s stern painted blue in the light of the nacelles. 

“Yeah,” he agreed. “They are.”


End file.
